Indecent proposals?
by LeCastor
Summary: Where Mordred asks Gwen to betray Arthur and wed him, Gwen is very ambivalent and the author develops a hateship.
1. The Proposal

Arthur was gone. Guinevere stood at the window, daydreaming - what to do now? Her lord accross the Channel and her nephew now as her warden. She sat at the window, unhappy and distraught.

She did not wish for her husband to die. She did not wish for Lancelot to die. For moments of weakness, the country was torn in fire and blood.

Tears. Silent and dignified, even for her, stray on her cheeks, and she does not wipe them as she blames herself endlessly for the unfolding events.

There is a knock at the door - she does not stir, and it is the lady in waiting who opens it, only a crack.

"I would see Her Majesty, please."

Mordred. There is a mix of fear and glee, a sort of strange hopefulness mixed with dread. Mordred. She looks back at the lady in waiting, nods silently.

"My Lady. Will you not eat?" His tone is remarkably pleasant, despite the underlying annoyance.

"I will not, please you, Sir Mordred." She replies quietly, she does not look back at him.

"It will not be said that the Queen of Britain perished of starvation on my watch, my Lady." She does not reply for a time, only cries.

What does it matter, when she has caused already so much strife?

"Would you instead prefer I be burned at the stake, Sir Knight?" She murmurs it with underlying hatred. If only he and Agravaine had let sleeping dragons lie.

_I would prefer to be King, is what, _she almost expects him to reply.

"I would not," he snaps. "But I would you ended your theatrical effects, and behaved like the Queen you are."

She turns at last, shows him her tears. "There is little of a Queen for me to remain, Mordred."

"Perhaps with another King...." the tone is almost a suggestion.

She shakes her head in response. "I would not, my nephew."

He bristles at the reminder, becomes a bit harsher in tone. "It was not a request."

She looks at him with wide eyes, is bewildered by this. "Then what was it, Mordred?"

"It was a fact, Guinevere."

She sighs, says nothing for a bit.

"Leave me to think on it, if you please," she says at long last. "I am weary and unable to decide."

He bows, stiffly, and goes.


	2. The Masquerade

She was again, in that same seat where he had found her the first time. Her tears were dry, now.

"Well?" It was short, curt, almost demanding.

She did not answer him, looking away, still, over the landscape. Lancelot. Arthur. Her heart still burned for them both. Mordred moved, fast like a snake, a hand clasping on her wrist.

"I will have my answer," he murmured, both a threat and a caress.

"And what will you, if I refuse you?" she said it quietly, tiredly.

"What do I know? Did my father not have his share of cares with you?" Another veiled threat, barely a whisper. She looked at him, sedately, shivering, a little.

"And if I told you that after all my sins, I do not wish to add incest to the list?" She spat out, suddenly, in an unexpected fit of character.

His hold on her wrist tightened significantly. "And if I told you that I want you?" His voice was husky, something new and odd, in his dark-haired features.

"Then I would tell you that you are mistaken," she murmured softly, but the remainder of her protest was sealed by a kiss.

It was a demanding kiss, something powerful and raw, passionate, not gentle and respectful like Arthur, not passionate and loving like Lancelot. It was other. It was darker. Something in it was desperate, and she gave in to that, almost unknowingly, kissing him in return before she could think better of it.

He started to laugh in the kiss, a cruel, cold laughter until he pushed her away, roughly, and she stumbled back into her chair.

"So my father did marry a slut. A barren, honorless slut." His lips took on a cruel curl, and he turned away.

"Make ready. Our wedding is come a few days."

She slumped in the chair, dejected, and cried long into the night.

The ceremony took place, and she went through with it in a daze. One might have thought that she was absent in spirit through it all, as even at the moment of consent one had to prompt her to respond. In a daze, still, she walked to the nuptial chamber. There, she sat on the bed without removing even her veil.

"And what now, of this masquerade, my lord husband?" The irony in her voice was thick like rancid butter.

"Now, I consumate," he murmured, his voice thick again. She shivered. It wasn't all dread, much to her shame.

"I shall not enjoy it," she replied soberly, determinedly, perhaps more for herself than for him.

To her greatest shame, she did.


End file.
